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There are some mornings that start out rough, get worse, and finally turn into a Greek tragedy, the final minute before the death star blows up and the ending to Old Yeller.

Starbucks is closed.

There is a hand written sign on the door that says something about “Maintenance issues” blah blah blah.

Bottom line is, they are closed.

How the hell does this happen?

Caffeine is a drug, don’t they realize that?

In the morning, I am 10 minutes away from knocking on doors to demand java.

Home invasion for a pot of Columbian.

Besides, what “Maintenance issue” is a big enough deal to shut down the whole place?

I am willing to wade thru backed up sewage for my morning fix.

That leaves 3 unpleasant alternatives.

1. Peet’s Coffee. Can never quite put my finger on what’s wrong with their coffee, but its wrong. (Like that slow cousin you NEVER leave alone with the kids kind of wrong.)

2. Noah’s Bagels. Not a coffee place, and it shows. Coffee is put into coffee urns. Always lukewarm and has a faint “Just been teabagged” flavor.

3. Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. The coffee place for people who’s taste buds are just to old to taste much anymore, or younger folks who are just a little too slow to recognize crap beans. Also, the clientele average about 85 years old. On any given day, there are at least 4 oxygen tanks and 3 little dogs.

Reluctantly, like a man agreeing to an IRS settlement, I head to the coffee bean.

And, wonder of wonders, it sucks.

First off, I end up ordering a large Costa Rica.

I know from experience that I hate Costa Rican.

However, the other choice is a dark Ghana roast that sucks worst and something called NY Snickers. (I swear, the flavored coffee crowd are like children.)

I believe I read somewhere online that Coffee Bean both supports whaling and child molestation. (My mind is frustrated to the point that this could be true or absolute BS, I have no way of knowing.)

Pains me to give them the money.

The old man at the table next to me just noisily shit his adult diaper.

Par for the course at the Coffee Bean.

I realize that there are those that like this place, even claiming that the coffee is the best available.

But, some people like snuff films, too.

Sad.

I made the mistake of posting this on FB.

Just a casual mention of the Starbucks being closed and my reluctant choking down of the Costa Rican swill.

And like a Brook Trout going after the bait, the Coffee Bean folks looked up from their various vile activities and attacked.

You would think I had talked smack about Michael Jackson at the funeral from the half-tarded indignant screeching that went on.

After awhile, it became a almost fun to taunt them.

Then it just made me feel like the class bully, slapping the defenseless little kids.

Fun for a few minutes, then just sad.

Starbucks had better be open on Monday.

I don’t think the Coffee Bean crowd will be able to breath after this blog.

And, if you are one of those sad CB fanatics and this offends you in any way?

I once heard the gang-tatted cashier say she would “Cut a bitch” here.

And there is a child on the verge of shitting himself here.

And mom is the type of passive, don’t want to make a scene, absolute shit parent that just stands and watches.

I hate this child.

I have no idea what his name is.

Usually, when a child is throwing a spoiled brat tantrum, mom will at least say their name in an attempt to break their concentration.

Not this lady.

And she isn’t even ignoring him.

She is just standing there watching, doing nothing.

The least she could do would be to beat this little bastard half to death.

Here is a short list of why she should.

1. While screaming hysterically, he emptied an entire shelf of 1 pound coffee bean bags. (Mom did not pick them up, she is just staring.)

2. He took a USA Today newspaper from the rack and tore it to pieces, all while shrieking. (The basic social contract demands that she offer to pay for it. Shit mom has yet to offer.)

3. He just pissed himself. (And, despite his obvious control issues, he is not in pull ups, and it looks like he did it on purpose.)

If that were me, and my mother were here, the police would be feeding her into the back of a patrol car in cuffs and the manager would be trying to figure out how to get my blood off of the ceiling.

And rightfully so.

I am not advocating beating your kids, but please beat your kids.

On another note, I had a total stranger carve into my for a few hours and the end result is a rather awesome tattoo.

25 years ago, in my tragic early 20’s, I got the worst tattoo I have ever seen.

A guy that claimed to have worked at a really good tattoo parlor, had left his shop and was doing tattoos out of his house to make rent.

I decided on a tribal Celtic sun.

It looked awesome on the page with some nice knot work.

It wasn’t until the asshole had been carving into my arm for about 40 minutes that he confessed that my tattoo was the most complicated thing he had ever attempted and that he hadn’t been an artist at his last shop, he had been an assistant.

Shit.

He probably was one of those little kids that would throw tantrums and mom never beat him.

So he grows up and absolutely fucks up other peoples flesh.

So I had this piece of crap riding my arm for 25 years.

But no more.

I had my new artist cover it up with a flawlessly done Celtic knotwork shield.

Couldn’t be happier.

Let that be a lesson to us all.

You don’t have to let one shitty act fuck up a part of your life forever.

I went to the bathroom for my morning constitutional with a flashlight.

After dropping trou, I sat and waited.

My bowels are not hard chargers in the wee hours of the morning.

Think of it like a freight train of waste, slow to start, awesome in its power at full speed.

I am not trying to be gross here, I am trying to “frame the picture” as is were.

So, after sitting in the dark waiting patiently for my morning BM to begin, I realize that I am pointing the flashlight at my crotch.

In my head is the reflex that, if I cannot see, I might shit on the walls.

I can’t help but think that my penis feels like “Don’t worry about the light, I got this.”

My bowels, however, seem to like a little light.

I refuse to point the light at my ass, so I compromise by leaving the flashlight on the sink with the beam shining nearby.

Success.

Once that is done, its time to shower.

I discovered something interesting in shower.

I can scurry around like a sure footed gymnast in total darkness.

But when I get wet, I lose all sense of balance.

It was after I had almost tore the shower curtain out the second time that I had to turn the flashlight on again.

Once I had a little feeble light to work with, my balance returned.

I realize now that saving the flashlight batteries just in case the power outage goes on for weeks is silly.

If this goes on for more than half a day, the flashlight batteries are the least of my worries.

Because by then, my milk is in danger of going bad.

What will I put in my coffee then?

Shit.

Plus, football is on at 10am and I am having a monster fantasy football season.

It is only the second game of the season and I can firmly see my place in the fantasy bowl, my team is epic.

My body, however, has other ideas.

My bowels have taken a shine to the idea of shitting in the dark.

Either that or the odd combination of things in my breakfast omelet have all come together to give what I like to call “Bacon thru a goose” syndrome.

Thank God for the Amazon Kindle, at least I have something to read.

So I came to Starbucks to finish my blog since I still have no electricity at the house.

And walked into the middle of an interesting little situation.

There is a gentleman having a net meeting on his laptop.

Loudly.

In Armenian. (I am fairly sure.)

And the local crowd at the surrounding tables are just about done.

I had just booted up when the guy at the table next to me shouted at him.

“DUDE! ENOUGH!”

And the room came to a stand still.

The Armenian guy opened his mouth to say something.

And thats when a guy on the other side of him yelled at him.

“TURN IT FUCKING DOWN!”

Actually he said “FOOKING” which may be an accent or serious speech impediment.

Take your pick, but it took an already tense situation and cranked it up into the rafters.

The sort of manager was saying nothing.

Starbucks as a corporation has this really passive management philosophy that they should hide behind the counter like a battered wife and only get involved when its time to give a statement to the police.

So the stuff that could have been nipped in the bud, but never is.

So the question is, when is the bud going to be nipped?

Moot point, the bud is leaving.

The Armenian is packing up and leaving.

And every movement is a masters study in being a pissy little girl.

And yet, if he would have turned it down, none of it needed to happen.

The second he walked out the door, every ass in the room generally unclenched.

I can’t help but think that Starbucks might be behind my power outage, it knew that I was putting together a blog and it had something to show me.

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Nothing bad has ever happened to me on this day in the history of my life.

But I fear it.

I spend the entire day scurrying about like a combination battered wife and a mole that was molested as a child.

Swamp ass of epic proportions

And the entire day is just an ass clench waiting for SOMETHING to happen.

Its exhausting.

Should the day come that I get so much as a splinter on Friday the 13th, I will be vindicated and then probably shit myself to death.

I have a number of people that seem annoyingly oblivious to the danger this day offers.

I say annoyingly mainly because they make fun of my fear.

Don’t get me wrong, I think they are right, I just wish it was someone other than me was dealing with it.

Then I could make fun of it, too.

On the flipside of things, while I think they are creepy, I am not afraid of clowns.

I have contemplated for years the idea of wearing a clown suit on Friday the 13th, just as a counteracting factor.

Lets see how tough you are, motherfucker, when I come running out of the alley at you in full clown makeup, floppy shoes and piranha teeth.

And my Red Cross CPR card is up to date, by the way.

I am going to make that my Halloween costume this year.

I wonder how many people could deal with an evening of drinking combined with a piranha toothed clown who is going out of his way to freak people out.

Thats an episode of Fear Factor you don’t wanna see, trust me.

And none of that mean spirited little fantasy helps me deal with the fact that this is being written by a man who is hiding like a coward in the back of a Starbucks.

Completely out of character for this vile day, I have a bunch of shit going on.

Someone really close to me is flying out of town.

I am having a tattoo finished after work tonight.

Have I gone insane?

Possibly.

I cannot begin to describe the terror that is running thru me at the thought of someone I barely know carving into my flesh in a permanent manner today of all days.

However, if there was ever a time in my life where I am RIPE for catching a flesh eating virus, its today of all days.

As for flying, forget about it.

The person flying doesn’t care what day it is.

And thats fine, I am worrying enough for both of us.

I am glad it is not me, if it were they would be peeling my petrified corpse out of that plane when it landed.

Getting a little misty-eyed about all this, and I am afraid to fart right now for fear I would shit myself.

This is most likely the most dysfunctional, whiney thing I have ever written, but I have no choice, I have THE FEAR, and its not going away quietly. (Hunter S. Thompson spent books documenting THE FEAR, so I think this is legitimate.)

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I have honestly come to hate little dogs, but only in a purely hypocritical way.

My parents have a Shi Tzu named Rocky, he’s awesome, cute as hell and they love him.

Everyone else’s little dog sucks.

Especially when you carry your yappy piece of shit into Starbucks.

When the dog is yapping non-stop, and you never stop your conversation with your friend to tell him to shut up, aside from the occasional “That’s momma’s baby!”, you are a rude old crone and your animal should be put down.

Just saying.

It has become an odd little clause of the social contract that we put up with this shit.

These used to be social conventions that basically amounted to common courtesy.

Now all of society is like a battered spouse, keep it to yourself, don’t make waves.

And on all too many occasions, we get slapped around for our trouble, without the obligatory “I’m sorry, baby.”

Ike Turner style.

A little like Gangnam Style, but with 80% more ass kicking.

However, with all of the screeching about gun control, shooting the little yapper out of her hands would be viewed negatively by local law enforcement, as well it should be.

But what if a well trained bigger dog came rushing in and snatched it out of her hands and ate it whole in front of her, then ran off at a complex toot of a training whistle.

And that whistle is not mine officer, someone put that on my table at Starbucks.

One of those awesome Alsatian Shepherds with the black mask.

Terrifying and cuddly at the same time.

They are also really trainable.

I used to have one that was also half wolf, one of my finest dogs of all time.

And he was a rescue.

Serious good karma there.

Unfortunately, he passed about 20 years ago, which explains why the little yappy dog and the old lady made it out of Starbucks unimpeded.

Better to save my karma for serious shenanigans.

One of the bad sides of having this type of semi-vile hyper creativity is that I sometime find myself knee deep in what you would call “Bad-Karma situations”.

And at those times, you dip into any banked good karma and hope for the best.

Before the voice in my head gets much louder, yes, not getting into trouble would be the best course of action.

But what fun is that?

Oat sowing continues long after you are old enough to know better.

You just have a better idea of what is acceptable and what is not.

However, beyond the old enough to know better means your mind can dream up some serious crazy shit.

Maybe its the coffee talking, and if it is, it certainly is not helpful.

Much like that friend that your mother is convinced is a bad influence on you.